


Kid

by heylifeitsemily



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Probably some dark character progression, origin story time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 11:46:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6853321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heylifeitsemily/pseuds/heylifeitsemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kid runs off to join an army, and as expected, gets a lot more than she bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kid

**Author's Note:**

> I have something up by the same name of an OC fic I wrote a while back with some very different goals in mind, and I always thought I could retell it with Kimball at the helm. So, this is basically a slight rewrite of that first chapter (which is still up by the way, same title but different tags and more chapters if you want to check it out) just to see if anyone would be interested in reading it further. Always bothered me that I never got around to doing more with it.

_In and out._

When she finally arrived, civilization felt far more like a distant memory than it should have, fuzzy at the edges, perhaps just a particularly pleasant dream she’d had in between the endless trudges. It was only a month, maybe two. Now, it comprised of lost time, bits and fragments resurfacing once in a while and the rest either forgotten or repressed.

At first, trekking outside of the city had been _mildly_ difficult. Food was scarce, and to keep up a good pace her rucksack had been filled with what she deemed the bare minimum – camping gear and two weeks’ worth of rations. This seemed a good idea for two reasons: there was little time before the guards spotted her gathering provisions, and she hoped she would stumble across some sort of food source before they ran out. Berries, animals, something.

Vanessa later learned, through a series of bad decisions with good intentions, that she was rarely so lucky.

By some miracle she managed to make the food last three weeks, rationing it and snacking here and there, holding onto that initial hope. The first day without it was easy, at least in comparison to the next few. She’d gone without food before, if the ‘prescribed sustenance’ in Deinde could be considered food.

Had she paid more attention when her friends planned their own escapes, when she thought it all a pipe dream, she wouldn’t have been so surprised when _every_ resource was scant. Chorus was not a forgiving planet, and it’s a wonder it was colonized in the first place. But with each passing day, her determination did not wane. She would not give up, not now.

One of the few incisive memories she maintained was the slow progression of emotion.

Fear. It dawned that she would die out there. Alone. From malnutrition or dehydration, or something far more gruesome. Her trek continued, in this perpetual state of waiting for death. Not quite ready for it, no, but just hoping it would come sooner rather than later. Scared but tranquil.

Then came panic. This was a mistake; she should never have left; she needs to eat; she has to keep going; she has to she has to she has to she has to

The mantra repeated itself endlessly, and she nearly gave in, when her legs were on fire and her chest clenched with every breath and her stomach ached for something – anything – and if she stopped maybe she could just slip away and wake up somewhere else.

By the fourth week’s close, she’d come across a bush with seemingly edible berries and a lake that was likely poisonous, radioactive, or some combination of the two. She weighed her options, decided it was worth the shot and downed three handfuls. Then two more. Had anyone come across her, kneeled over the water, hair matted and falling out in tufts, they might have mistaken her for something savage and mutant.

It was that thought that stopped her from gorging herself any more, and she set up camp. Her tent was weathered, smelling strangely and filled with holes, barely protecting from the elements.

But it was _something_ , and that defined her standards in those weeks.

The worn fabric shielded her as best it could from the temperature range, something she’d never properly experienced in the cities. Daylight hours ran a slight risk of heat stroke, but the danger came at night, when hypothermia would have been a certainty if not for the heat blankets she routinely cocooned herself in.

Eventually, those blankets showed signs of wear and tear she could not ignore, and she left her lake, with as much water and berries as her canteens and rucksack could carry.  

When she woke that night o hushed voices, she was certain they were her own; fabrications her mind concocted to keep her sane. She whispered to them, pleaded for relief, for safety, for strength, and for hope.

Hope was all she had left.

There was movement, strong arms sweeping her up and cradling her. Flashes of armor and murmurs telling her to rest, that it was going to be just fine. She would be taken care of.

The voices were kind, lacking the sinister quality she had expected of the Federal Army. There was no venom or threat of comeuppance in their words, just consolation and deep breaths. Promises of protection. She leaned into the chest of whoever was carrying her slight form, trying to stop herself from crying. This was how she died, at the hands of Federal punishment, because no one is allowed to leave the colonies. No one. They would torture her until her last breath with all the glee of a child testing out a new toy.

Or, worse, they would send her home.

She trembled at the thought, pushing back memories of the public executions, of her peers’ faces.

But, then again, death sounded oh so nice. It wouldn’t be quick, nor would it be painless. But anything to stop the insane ache that wove its way through every muscle, the griping pain that seized her stomach, the agony of fighting to stay conscious. A third option remained; that she was already beyond saving. She believed death had come then, as the pain eased and her vision grew dark. And once again, she was mistaken.

About several things, actually.

The infirmary she awoke in was more of a cabin filled with cots, certainly not a Federation facility. She was almost relieved. Almost. The room was blindingly white, separate from that of the other patients. Theirs was filled with gunshot victims and frenzied workers running around with eyes that used to crinkle at the corners when they smiled. It seemed that so many ended up in their care, that hope was no longer worth holding on to. She tried her hardest not to pity them.

They were still kind, despite the defeat they wore so clearly in their sagging postures and lightless smiles. She did not tell her story when prompted, did not feel the need to burden these people with pity of their own. And more so, she did not believe she was deserving of pity. She only had herself to blame, she made her own choices, and she did not regret them. She still doesn’t.

Skylar, the tall woman with bloodshot eyes, talked with her ceaselessly. It was pleasant chatter, the kind that came through one ear and went out the other, and it was only after hours of it that Vanessa was willing to reveal anything, just so that she would stop for a moment or two.

She told it as humbly as she could, downplaying at every turn, but that didn’t stop their widening eyes and reassuring hums. She ended with a declaration of her cognizance of her actions, and that the last thing she wanted was their pity.

“Pity?” Skylar scoffed, “don’t be ridiculous. We all ran away; we all came here with a vision. You had it the worst out of most of us, but we don’t pity you. We sympathize.”

“Empathize,” Raymond corrected, patting her knee. “We empathize with you, kid.”

That became her name. _Kid_.

“You’re far too malnourished to do anything just yet, kid.”

“Kid, you don’t have your strength back. Rest.”

“You’re a pretty brave one, kid. Don’t let that go to your head.”

She grew impatient with the treatment inside of a couple of days, and the last straw occurred with Ray’s hands on her shoulders, pushing her to lay back down on the cot. Something in her, desperate and fraught, snapped.

“Goddammit, Ray!” she shouted, pushing the man into the wall, the audible thump causing Skylar to wince. “I’m never gonna recover if you don’t let me off this damn cot! What the fuck would this be worth then? I didn’t do this for – for…”

She drifted off, eyes trained firmly on her hands – so gaunt she could completely see the outline of each working part, the bone in her wrist jutting out harshly. No one spoke as Ray moved slowly to help her up off the cot, keeping a steady grip on her elbows, and he didn’t show the slightest surprise when her legs collapsed beneath her, unable to support her weight.

She cried for hours, apologizing, lashing out at them, apologizing again. She sobbed until she fell asleep, Skylar petting her hair and telling her she had nothing to be sorry for. We all have bad days.

The next couple weeks were calm, no more breakdowns, just more pleasant chatter with Skylar, who seemed to use her room more and more as a reprieve from the hustle and bustle of tending to the wounded. It was selfish in a way that would normally make Vanessa feel disgusted, but after long enough she became amazed that Skylar spent as much time in the thick of it as she did. Not to mention she appreciated the company.

They had barred her from interacting with other patients, something about sickness threatening her already shaky health. For the first time in a while, she did as her authority figure said, and it was working out rather well

On the last day, Commander Barnett had visited. Vanessa was surprised by how simultaneously young and old he looked, skin smooth from wrinkles but eyes sunken, salt and pepper sprinkling his temples. She tried not to let it unnerve her, reminding herself that he was the one that found her during the scout mission and brought her back to camp. Carried her for miles, talking the whole time, or she was told. She doesn’t remember it properly any more.

_“You’re Vanessa Kimball?” he says. His voice is still soft, gentle like she remembers. The authoritative quality she couldn’t hear earlier is clearly noticeable, especially when he asks questions he already knows the answers to._

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“Then I’m afraid you can’t stay.”_

_Her fingers clutch her bedsheets, betraying her calm, and she focuses on her breathing. That’s what makes a soldier – competency under pressure and shock, resilience in the face of unexpected outcomes or fear. This is some sort of test, surely. She has to prove herself._

_“I’m sorry sir, I don’t understand.”_

_“Your parents are quite high up in the Federation ranks, Miss Kimball. Lots of power on their shoulders, and they’re looking everywhere for you. Keeping you would only hurt our cause.”_

_Engaging the child in her. Smart, because she is still here, full of paralyzing fear and wondrous hope, unsure if she has done the right thing._

_“Sir, with all due respect, I have no intention of returning.”_

_His grim expression remains, but he takes a moment to examine her, sizing her up. Finally, he meets her eyes again, and she feels her age. There is no condescension in his gaze, but she realizes how young 14 really is, and her anxiousness grows tenfold._

_She steadies her breathing, again._

_“Please, sir,” Vanessa says, thankfully sounding far more confident then she feels . “I can’t go back. I can’t just stand by knowing what the Federation does to its citizens. I’m here to help,” a deep breath. “And I plan on doing so.”_

_“Look, kid,” and she already knows what he’s going to say. “You’re too young. I have no problem concealing you from your parents. Matter of fact, I don’t give two shits about how they feel at the moment.”_

_“It just seemed to be the easiest way to get me to leave, appealing to my guilt,” she says. “Which is non-existent, I should add.”_

_There’s a hint of a smile on his face, but he just nods in agreement._ _“Regardless of your lack of guilt, you’re a child, and I can’t allow you to fight in this war.”_

_“Sir, age is no guarantee of skill.”_

_“I agree wholeheartedly, but-”_

_“But nothing.” He raises an eyebrow at her, and she sighs but holds his gaze, grip on the sheets finally relaxing. “If I die in this war, it’s on me. If you don’t let me fight here, I’ll find another way. I promise.”_

_A silence stretches between them, his gaze calculating as he looks for any trace of dishonesty in her statement. She knows he won’t find any._

_He rises from his seat on the edge of her cot, grabbing his helmet._

_“You won’t be on any sort of battlefield for a good long while, Kimball.”_

_She nods in a complacent way, but they both know it’s merely to appease him._

_“You'll be trained, soon. I have no idea what you’re capable of, what your strengths and weaknesses are. But you’re tough, kid. I’ll give you that.”_

_She looks down at her hands, still frail and covered in flaking skin, but not nearly as fragile as before. He’s studying her with a sort of blunt curiosity when she meets his eyes, wondering what she’ll say._

_She simply nods._

_He smiles._

The day she left, Skylar told her not to visit. They would eat together in the mess hall, see each other around the base; their quarters were even close to each other. She demanded that the infirmary remain off limits. She was not to arrive on foot, or, unspoken by Skylar, on a stretcher.

There was no paperwork on their side of the war, and lack of documentation meant that she could continue going by Kimball, and no one could do anything more than suspect her relation to the prominent political figures of the same name. Barnett only instructed, in private, that for all intents and purposes she turned 18 a month ago, and that any one privy to her actual age should be given the same memo.

The first couple months were filled with endless training, where Vanessa’s limbs protested with every moment and she relished in it. So much so that her daily training became nightly too, depending on who was patrolling. It was usually Esmond, who didn’t give a damn as long as she stayed quiet, and some nights it was Lex, who scolded her but with a smile in her voice. To them, being 18 still meant she was still young. Barely out of adolescence, reckless, naïve.

In an effort to keep things normal, or as normal as they could be given the circumstances, her fifteenth birthday was celebrated at the base as her nineteenth. The stash of alcohol was brought out and consumed sparingly, and she found herself drinking far earlier in life than she had planned. It was something about the mood of the group, sitting around her in the mess hall with a party hat made from gauze sitting atop her head. That, and it was a pleasure just to take the damn helmet off.

She laughed off any comments on how young she looked, and Barnett quickly turned conversation in another direction. Once he had left for the night, Skylar took up the task. It was a strangely efficient system that they worked out wordlessly, and continued to use for any subsequent events.

The next morning, she was laughed at for her raging headache and prided on her not vomiting, which, she learned, could not be said for several other privates.

Unsympathetic to her plights, the lieutenant assigned to their training that day put them back to the same old grind.

Target Practice. To everyone else, she was a city kid who’d gotten there on sheer dumb luck and a lot of willpower, meaning that when her first shot was spot on, they were fairly impressed. She, on the other hand, was not, having hit two inches to the left of where she was aiming. A year and a half of practice with anything she could get her hands on should have prepared her better. She conceded, internally, that the cool metal in her hands and the gunshot ringing in her ears was vastly different from what she’d grown used to. Heavier. More finite.

She stayed away from the shooting range, when she could.

The next stop was the mess hall, for breakfast, because their assigned lieutenant felt it better to start the day with some good old shootin’ before they actually ate. Food was a generous term, but no one was picky.

Melee weapons. Focus on edge weapons rather than blunt. While ultimately useful, she avoided it, and found quickly that she wasn’t the only one.

Then came the standard endurance training, running and the like, for which she both lived for and detested with great fervour. She only stopped when she was told to, when everyone else could see that she was near to passing out and she remained willfully ignorant. It was exhilarating. Exhausting, putting her a little too close to dehydration every time, but exhilarating.

Ranged weapons was every second day, and nights when she could swing it. The residual ache in her shoulder from the countless recoils eventually dampened, and as soon as it did she worked with unsettling precision. Lex had whistled as the pylon fell nearly 800 yards away, toppling down the cliff face.

And days she wasn’t wooing everyone with what Lex had called ‘her mad sniping skills’, they had their practice missions. Often went alright, minimal fake casualties.

Some evenings, her favourite ones, when the sun was high and morale low, Rowland and Heart would sing a song or two. Soothing tones, unsettling lyrics, but calming overall. They performed something at her birthday, something at the time she had found remarkably depressing.

They were killed on an infiltration mission four months after she arrived. Looking back on it, their performance had filled her with dread. But what made it so haunting was the barest glimpse of hope it showed, underneath the despair. While neither Esmond nor her had much talent vocal-wise, they sang it, legs dangling over the cliff’s edge. _Am I transmitting? Is anyone listening?_

He died too, 3 weeks later. Vanessa sang again, voice wobbly and brittle as it echoed across the canyon. He was 26, with a love for botany so intense he spent most of patrol categorizing the species around camp, quizzing her on which were edible and which were not.

A week after that, Barnett placed her on a team. She didn’t ask why, but suspected it had something to do with the way she’d stopped eating. It was a good one, possibly the best one, with a sense of camaraderie that she couldn’t help but get dragged in to. Any reasoning for his decision went unspoken, but he made it clear that she wouldn’t be doing anything but recon, and the leader would be working with her personally.

Felix.

What an asshole.

She’d say it behind his back, but more often to his face, joking whilst being entirely serious. He took it as a compliment, as he did with all things. He was arrogant, proud, sarcastic, frustratingly cocky, and it was so incredibly refreshing that she flocked towards him like a moth to flame. Contrarily, he was annoying and vain, cared more about money than the cause, and she couldn’t tell whether he actually enjoyed her company or not. But for the first time since she could remember, she had a proper friend.

He chuckled when she called him that, scratching the back of his neck.

She went on to list things she saw him as – a merc, a pain her ass, a reason to laugh, a leader, a confidant.

It was upon saying the last one out loud that she dwelled on the decision to tell him the truth. What we would he say? Was there anything to say? She’d been lying about who she was, maybe not in a way that counted, but still very much a lie. A lie she’d based countless relationships on.

He asked her if she was dying, if that’s where this spiel was coming from, and something about it spurred her on. It was normal, the comforting sort of mockery that told her if he could diffuse their first serious conversation, he could cope with just about anything she threw his way.

She sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and turning to face him. Taking a breath, _in and out_ , she told him everything she could remember. It was long and winded, with unnecessary detail as she put off the big reveal. He sat patiently, head cocked, waiting for the payoff or punchline he could feel her building up to.

She apologized after finally saying it, breaking his gaze and looking down at her hands, and was about to apologize again when the silence breaks with a snort.

“You’re like what, fucking 12,” he managed, head thrown back in laughter, “what a fucking idiot.”

And for some fucked-up reason, that was the most comforting thing she’d heard in a long time.


End file.
